


Raspberry Leaf

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Also Ciri is Sad About Stuff, And Geralt of Rivia Cannot Cope, Angst, But Oh My God Are They Messes, Ciri Has Her Period, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Needs a Hug, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Menstruation, Not Beta Read, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, That's it, Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Something isn’t quite right. Maybe this is something that all parents or guardians earn with time, but in the few months since acquiring the Child and getting a certain bard back into his life, Geralt hasn’t been able to settle.But this is different. Nothing lifts his hackles. He has no urge to curl his fingers around the pommel of his sword that lies nearby. But something is...different. Geralt looks around the small camp they’ve made for themselves. Jaskier still sits slouched against his side. Ciri’s perched on a log, her arms tightly hugged around herself.Or; Geralt finds himself dealing with the troubles of being a guardian.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 444





	Raspberry Leaf

Something isn’t quite right. Maybe this is something that all parents or guardians earn with time, but in the few months since acquiring the Child and getting a certain bard back into his life, Geralt hasn’t been able to settle.

He’s never been any good at relaxing anyway. Being alert was something engrained into his bones when he was nothing but a pup. Vesemir’s words whisper to him, even now, decades after he left the keep for the first time.

 _The moment you start to lower your guard is the moment something emerges from the shadows, teeth bared and ready to kill._

But this is different. Nothing lifts his hackles. He has no urge to curl his fingers around the pommel of his sword that lies nearby. But something is...different. Geralt looks around the small camp they’ve made for themselves. Jaskier still sits slouched against his side. Ciri’s perched on a log, her arms tightly hugged around herself.

Geralt frowns.

Jaskier nudges his shoulder. “Everything alright in there?”

He looks down at the bard. They have a lot of ground to cover before they even reach the foot of Kaer Morhen’s path. He’s managed to work it out that Nilfgaardian forces are the ones who want Ciri – but the _why_ is still eluding him. With Kaer Morhen still a week’s journey away, they should get moving before the winds change for the winter.

But he has to remind himself that he’s a Witcher – he’s walked this path for countless years.

They haven’t.

They could reach the bottom of the path just in time for the weather, but it would mean nothing if their feet couldn’t carry them any further.

Jaskier is about to press him again but Geralt grunts. “I’m fine.”

The bard doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he leaves it. And Geralt thanks every single god he can remember the name of.

Their small fire is nothing more than a spark, but enough to ward the worst of the chill away. Roach seems grateful for the rest too, plucking at whatever grass and moss remain around the foot of a nearby tree.

It’s then he catches it – when Ciri moves to stand up, she winces. She’s careful to hide the worst of it. But it flashes across her face quicker than a fork of lightning through the night sky. She wanders over to the mare, stretching out an opened palm first. Roach doesn’t like most people – Jaskier, even with years behind them, is still working on being near the mare without being threatened with a kick to the shin. But the mare snorts as Ciri’s fingers brush her flank, pressing into her fluffy winter coat.

Geralt nudges Jaskier off of him. The bard rises with a huff, setting about gathering his stuff and quenching the fire. Geralt keeps Ciri in sight, watching the girl carefully.

When Roach brushes her muzzle against the girl’s forehead, she lets out a quiet laugh. She pushes the mare’s head away, but Roach tries to nip at her fingers. Her ears are pricked forward. She means nothing by the nip, it’s playful – she almost took a chunk out of the bard just for walking a bit too close on one occasion. But she lets Ciri place a hand on her snout.

Geralt goes over to them. The mare’s ears prick forward. He catches Roach’s reins, tossing them over the mare’s head. “Are you alright?” he keeps his voice low.

Ciri looks down at her boots. Before they left the Sodden farmhouse, Zola graciously leant the girl some of the boy’s clothes; breeches, a long-sleeved tunic, a woollen coat, and boots. They’re still a tad too big for her, but they’ll do. Ciri picks at some of Roach’s hair, plucking a clod of dirt out. “Is there a village or a town nearby?” she doesn’t look at him.

Geralt blinks, but nods. “A trading post, but it should have some stores,” he replies. Even though she’s turned mostly from him, he can still see a sliver of the side of her face. Her skin is white. “Are you ill? You’re pale.”

His mind is left behind as he reaches out for her, but Ciri jerks away.

“I’m fine,” she says firmly, turning on her heel and walking towards Jaskier. The bard holds out his hand for her, but she just walks passed. Jaskier blinks and looks back to Geralt with a bewildered look.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder.

It’s still in him; the cold, churning feeling in his stomach. It’s only gotten worse now that she’s starting to pull away from him. The girl who rushed for him, arms outstretched, isn’t here.

Roach nudges him with her head. Huffing a small laugh, Geralt scratches behind the mare’s ears. “Thanks, Roach.”

* * *

He’s been to the post before. When winters have rolled in quicker than expected, and his rations for the mountain’s path had to be used up, the shopkeeps here kept him feed and watered. That being said, he can never remember the name of the place. It’s nothing more than a few shops sitting on the junction of four roads. During the summer months, merchants take their wares straight through, maybe stopping to see if anything of value could be gotten. But all that surrounds the town are fields of crops and herbs.

They’re not a few paces into the town before Ciri wanders off on her own. Usually, the girl is up on Roach with him, barred in with his arms. And it’s for this damn reason. He lets out a grunt, and is about to dismount, when Jaskier’s hand on his thigh stops him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” the bard says.

Geralt opens his mouth. He wants to make the argument that Ciri is _his_ to protect. That whatever is churning his stomach won’t go away until _he_ sees that she’s safe. But the bard is gone before anything can come out.

Roach tosses her head, shuffling her weight underneath him. “Laugh it up,” Geralt grunts, scratching the mare’s withers.

They’re gone for almost ten minutes. A short amount of time, he knows, but it feels like hours. When he sees them again, Ciri has a small linen bag swinging by her side. She still looks stark white. Geralt reaches down a hand for her. “Did you get everything you needed?”

Ciri holds the bag close to her and nods. Jaskier helps lift her up, and when she’s settled back against Geralt’s chest, they continue their walk towards Kaer Morhen.

* * *

They try not to stay in inns. Inns are breeding grounds for gossip and rumours. It’s where would-be spymasters can make their coin by seeing a Witcher with a bard, and an almost white-haired young girl who bares an eerie resemblance to the girl a Nilfgaardian captain to the south is looking for.

But sometimes it’s just too cold and wet to spend the night outside. And although the road is still dry, Geralt has been watching the clouds all day. The moment they started turning a dark grey, he suggested staying at the next tavern they would find.

And as soon as Jaskier hands over the coin for the room, a clap of thunder rumbles outside.

And then the pattering of rain starts.

The door slams open and a small crowd of people push themselves in, shaking off the rain. “Clean your boots before you come in! Damn animals, the lot of ye!” The innkeep roars towards the door. When she turns back to Jaskier, her face softens. “There’s mutton or kidney pie for dinner, with some winter vegetables too. If you need bread, give Freya a shout,” she points towards a young girl carrying tankards back towards the bar. “She baked some fresh earlier.”

The room isn’t much, but two beds, one larger than the other. There’s a hearth with a small stack of wood next to it, with some kindling and a flint stone. The bedding is clean and at the foot of each bed, there are woollen blankets and furs folded up and stacked. They leave most of their things in the room. Geralt keeps a sword strapped to his waist; even if they’re only going back downstairs for some supper before heading to bed. Jaskier brings his lute; announcing something or other about needing to lift people’s spirits from the shit weather outside.

They’re about to head out when Geralt watches Ciri perch on the edge of her own, smaller bed. “I’m not hungry,” she says quietly, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “I might just go to bed. If that’s okay?”

A small frown creases his brow. She didn’t eat much today apart from some dried beef and a small piece of bread. Geralt opens his mouth.

Jaskier jumps in ahead of him. “Of course that’s okay. Do you want us to save you anything?”

Ciri shakes her head. “Thank you.”

They’re sure to close the door after them. The tavern doesn’t have that many rooms, and most, if not all, of those staying appear to be weary tradesmen on their way somewhere else. Geralt glowers as they start walking downstairs.

“Don’t be like that.” Jaskier clicks his tongue. “If she doesn’t want to eat, you can’t force her to.”

“We have days of travelling ahead of us,” Geralt grunts. “I don’t want her fainting.”

“With how tightly you hold on to her on Roach, I’m sure you won’t have to worry about her sliding off.”

Dinner is simple, but as soon as he swallows the first bite of mutton, warmth rushes through his veins. Jaskier halves a loaf of bread, pushing Geralt’s share over to his side. It’s familiar, this. A constant in his life – until it wasn’t. He still finds himself accosted by memories of words spat on the mountain. Even after an apology, he still waits for the day where he’ll wake up and Jaskier isn’t in his arms. He won’t even be in his bed. And he’ll be alone with the girl.

When they’ve cleaned their plates, Jaskier takes up a table to the corner of the tavern, plucking a couple of strings of his lute. A few people perk up, small smiles ghosting their lips. Others keep to their plates of food and tankards of ale.

Geralt sits back, watching with a smile of his own when Jaskier performs. It’s as natural to the bard as breathing.

His ears twitch at the sound of someone clearing their voice. Geralt looks over to see the innkeep holding out a small steaming cup of something.

Geralt eyes the cup. “What is it?”

“A tea for the girl,” the woman says, pressing the cup into Geralt’s hands. “It should help her with the pain.”

At that, Geralt frowns. “Pain?”

The woman waves her hand. “Just give it to her. Honestly. You’re no different to the rest of the men, Witcher.” She huffs, setting her hands on her hips. “You have no problem with spilling the blood of men and monsters, but as soon as a woman’s blood is involved, you run for the hills.”

And with _that_ , the woman turns and starts on an attack of some more men wandering in with drenched boots and cloaks. Geralt stares down at the cup in his hand. The tea’s smell is pungent; raspberry leaf, if he had to place it, with a little bit of honey.

Jaskier keeps performing, finally wrangling a few people to stand and sing with him. The mood has loosened and livened; enough for Geralt to make his way back upstairs without worrying that the bard will be harmed.

He pauses outside of their door. Songs and tapping feet keeping rhythm still rumble from downstairs. But Geralt turns his head. He can’t hear any movement from inside the room.

He opens the door slowly. “Ciri?” After a brief moment of silence, his ears twitch at the sound of bedding shifting.

When he steps inside the dimly lit room, he still has to stop himself from wincing at how pale the girl still is. Dark rings sit underneath her eyes and in the ridge of her cheekbones.

Ciri sits up in bed, an unreadable expression on her face. “I thought you would be with Jaskier,” she says, fiddling with the fraying edge of bedclothes.

Geralt lifts his hand. “The innkeep gave me this to give to you,” he says, stepping into the room. It’s ridiculous. It’s _his_ room too. But he has to force his own damn feet to carry him over to Ciri’s bed. His own throat and mouth aren’t even co-operating. “She said it would help with...”

She must catch his meaning; the faintest hint of a blush speckles her cheeks. Ciri tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks,” she mumbles, taking the cup from him. She takes a small sip, relaxing back into the pillows packed against the bed’s headboard. The cup sits snugly in her hands, and as she keeps it close to her lips, she’s warmed by the steam rising to her face.

His movements are slow. When he goes to perch on the edge of her bed, Ciri doesn’t move. “If you were in pain, you should have told me.”

Ciri’s hair is long and thick enough that, when she bows her head, it falls over her face, shielding her from Geralt’s eyes. “I didn’t want to bother you.” Her voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper.

Geralt sighs. “You wouldn’t have bothered—,” he presses his lips together into a thin line. “I promised your grandmother that I would protect you. And I’ll do that until my last breath.”

Ciri doesn’t look at him for a long time, preferring to look everywhere else in the room _but_ at him. And he’s used to it – having people either avoid eye-contact with him, or just stare at him. But this time, knowing that Ciri still, after all that’s happened, might not be that comfortable around him, his heart aches.

“I knew what it was.”

The words barely carry themselves to him. It takes a second for him to figure out that Ciri actually spoke. When he looks at her, her shoulders are tensed up, almost reaching her ears. “My grandmother told me, I don’t know, how it worked? I guess. What would happen, and,” Ciri bites her lip and looks down into her cup.

A quiet moment passes between them. Distantly, the songs and chatter from downstairs float up through the floorboards under them.

Geralt blinks. “You miss her, don’t you?”

Something cracks on the girl’s face. “I miss all of them,” she whispers, a sob suddenly wringing out of her throat. Geralt reaches out, snatching the cup of hot tea from her hands before she can spill it. He sets it to the bedside table nearby.

He hasn’t heard her cry before. Melancholy wraps around her like a cloak; and why shouldn’t it, after all that she’s been through within the last couple of months. But she’s never _cried_.

Now, Geralt bites the inside of his cheek, unsure just of what to do. The dam has burst, and with every sob that shakes the girl’s body, something pulls at his arms.

His mind can’t catch up with him fast enough. Before he’s aware of what he’s doing, he has Ciri gathered to his chest. Her arms coil around him, holding him close. She buries every cry and sniffle into the front of his tunic. It doesn’t even register with him that the front of it will be damp and tear-stained. He can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m so sorry, Ciri.” The words rumble out of his chest. “You’ll be alright. I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

The arms around him tighten.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that. Even Jaskier’s muffled singing fades away after a time. All he can focus on is letting the girl in his arms get as much pain out of her own body as she can. Once the dam breaks, the easiest thing to do is to wait out the flood.

When it begins to ebb away, when all that’s left of the break is her hiccupping and sniffing against him, Geralt reaches for the cup nearby. “Here,” he offers it to her. “You need to drink something.”

Her face is wet and red and blotchy, but she wipes the back of her hand against her nose and takes the cup. She manages a couple of small sips before she eventually moves away from Geralt and back to her nest of blankets.

“Do you need anything?” Geralt asks.

“No. No, I’m alright.” A small blush sits on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

There’s a gentle rap on the door. Geralt looks over his shoulder just in time to see Jaskier poke his head into the room. “Everything alright?” he asks, though his eyes jump between the two of them. When he spots the cup in Ciri’s hands, a small frown etches over his face.

Geralt grunts. “If you’re coming in, come in. I’d rather have you in here than a draft.”

Jaskier balks. He mutters something under his breath about _Witchers_ and their _manners_ , or lack thereof. Jaskier, thankfully, wanders over towards the bed on the other side of the room. Ciri watches the bard out of the corner of her eye. I’m sorry if I was mean to you earlier, Jaskier,” she says quietly. “I...I’m not feeling myself.”

“Little cub, don’t ever worry about any of that.” Jaskier nods towards Geralt. “I’ve known this brute most of my life.”

That manages to wrangle a small chuckle out of her. And with that, a breath rushes out of Geralt’s lungs. Ciri takes another slow sip of tea. “Feeling any better?” Geralt asks her quietly. She nods. “Good. Try and get some sleep. If you need anything during the night...”

A small smile ghosts her lip. “Thank you.”

In the time Geralt moves across the room towards his own bed, making sure his swords are settled within an arm’s reach if needs be, and Ciri’s cup is put away for the night, he finds the girl already drifting deeper into sleep. Light comes from a candelabrum still burning with the wicks of candles. He blows them out, plunging the room into darkness.

The fire crackles nearby, but it’s not enough to light the room. But it does keep the chill at bay. Still, he pulls Ciri’s blankets up towards her chin, fighting off a small smile as she buries her nose into them.

Geralt sits back on the edge of his bed, toeing off his boots. His ears twitch at the sound of a light snicker.

He glances over his shoulder to the bard already tucked into bed.

“You’re sweet,” Jaskier smiles, lifting the sheets for the Witcher to slide underneath.

Geralt grunts, but takes up a space beside the other man. “Go to sleep, bard, or we’re leaving you here in the morning.”

Even through the darkness, he can see Jaskier’s affronted look. “How come you’re never sweet to me? I understand with the girl. Really, Geralt, if you ever pulled this shit with her, not that you would, of course, but if you did – I’d be livid. But why must you be so cruel to me and all that I’ve done for you?”

It’s become a talent of his – blocking out Jaskier’s voice. When he settles his head back against the pillows, Geralt sighs and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I want every single one of you, yes especially YOU, to know that as soon as Yennefer of Vengerberg heard about this, she screamed. 
> 
> (Also, raspberry leaf tea is very good for period cramps. I take it on the regular. Would highly recommend.)
> 
> Tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense) || agoodgoddamnshot (writings)


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